Ali & the Too Hot, Up-to-No Good, Very Beastly Boy: A Standalone Sweet YA Romance (Jackson High Series Book 1)

by M. L. Collins

  Ali & the Too Hot, Up-to-No Good, Very Beastly Boy

  A Jackson High Novel

  M.L. Collins

  Ali & the Too Hot, Up-to-No Good, Very Beastly Boy

  Copyright © 2019 M.L. Collins

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by K&T Editing

  Cover Design by NPTB Creatives

  Made in the United States of America

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. You’ve Got This, Ali Frost

  2. Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner Booth

  3. Improvise on the Fly

  4. Predators, Scavengers & Herbivores. Oh My.

  5. Are You Stalking Me?

  6. I’m Okay–You’re Okay

  7. You Didn’t Even Know Her Name

  8. It Ain’t All Rainbows and Unicorn Farts

  9. Bowling Boyfriends are Not a Thing

  10. Football Coaches Shouldn’t Pack Lunches

  11. Rules for Football Girlfriends

  12. Goldfish or Barracudas?

  13. Two Goons Walk into a Parking Lot

  14. Get Out of Your Head!

  15. Bowlers Have Balls

  16. You Lied to My Dad?

  17. Just Stargazing

  18. Do You Think We’re Stupid?

  19. Bowling Doesn’t Have Cheerleaders

  20. Front Porch Sitting

  21. Bad Luck and Big Foot

  22. PDA at a Bowling Meet

  23. Butt Ugly or Complete Cowards

  24. Hey, Universe, if You’re Listening…

  25. A Win-Win for Us Both

  26. You Know Me

  27. Blindsided

  28. That’s Not How This Works

  29. What Does Your Gut Say?

  30. Pretty Sure I’d Pee My Pants

  31. As Welcome as a Wedgie on a Five-Mile Run

  32. Trying to Hug a Prickly Cactus

  33. Gonna Need a Hail Mary Pass

  34. Ali and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

  35. Level the Playing Field

  36. Escaping From Quicksand

  37. Bowling Boyfriend (Now A Thing!)

  Epilogue

  A Note from M.L.

  A Sneak Peek: Where the Wild Boyfriends Are

  Huge Heartfelt Thanks To…

  About the Author

  1

  You’ve Got This, Ali Frost

  Ali

  2nd Quarter Begins, Oct 7, 7:35 a.m.

  Please excuse Ali’s absence due to a surprise alien abduction.

  Probably not a good excuse.

  Holding my hand out over the vent, I let the cool air flow against my palm and between my fingers while possible excuses for skipping school ran through my head. I picked up my lucky Black Widow ball—the one my Nana left me in her will—moved onto the approach, and took my stance.

  Ali was absent from school because her emotional support goldfish died.

  Eh…maybe my lame excuses were a sign I shouldn’t skip. Although, it wasn’t like anyone would miss me.

  “This tune goes out to Ali Frost.” The announcement echoed over the PA system just before “I Will Survive” pumped throughout Bowl-O-Rama along with a “Go, Ali!” and a “Hooah!” from the Flying Aces down on lane seven.

  “Thanks, Mr. Jones!” I called out, keeping my attention focused on the ball in my hand and the lane stretched out in front of me.

  Ali missed school due to car trouble which sparked a migraine which caused the need for a mental health day. Oh, and cramps.

  Overkill? Yeah. Okay, if I get a strike I’ll skip. Straight wrist, eyes on target, steps, swing, slide-step, throw, release, follow-through, aaand… Nope. Too much spin. My ball shot down the oiled lane toward my target veering millimeters off course. I didn’t need to watch the pins fly from the crash of my ball to know it wasn’t a strike. 7-10 split. Bed Posts.

  Dang it. What about…

  Ali didn’t make it to school because even four hundred eighty-five revolutions of the sun after her personal ground zero she is still gutted, empty, angry, bereft, pathetic, and prefers Bowl-O-Rama to her new high school.

  Maybe not that one either. I doubted Principal Barstow would go for it even though it was the truth.

  I’d much rather hang out here all day. Bowl-O-Rama had become my safe space and escape hatch. I didn’t used to come to the alley in the morning. Insomnia changed that. There were only two places to go at five a.m. in our small town: Waffle House or Bowl-O-Rama. Bowl-O-Rama was practically my second home.

  “Ali,” Mr. Jones called over the PA again. “Your dad called. Said to tell you to get your ass to school.”

  I flipped around, arching an eyebrow at Mr. Jones standing behind the shoe rental counter. My dad would not have said “ass.” A year ago, sure, but not now. Not since he quit his job last year to be Mr. Mom.

  “So, I put it into my own words.” He shrugged and gave me a wink. “Same gist. Skedaddle, girl. Get outta here. It’s your senior year. Shouldn’t you be more excited?”

  “This is my excited face.” I grabbed my ball off the return rack and gave it a quick wipe with my towel before sliding it into the bag. After changing my shoes, I swung my backpack over one shoulder, grabbed my bowling ball bag, and headed out. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, you know.”

  “Don’t think I won’t tell your father if you skip school.” He pointed at me. “I will be extremely disappointed if I see your face before three o’clock when school lets out.”

  “Sorry, not sorry, Mr. J. I’ve got bowling class first period this quarter. You’re stuck with me.”

  He shook his head. “You need to get out more. Hang out with your friends.”

  “You guys are my friends.”

  “That’s sad. I mean, we like you, but you need to hang out with people who aren’t drawing social security or buying adult diapers, you know?” Mr. J’s bushy gray eyebrows lowered over his piercing blue eyes. “You need to get a life.”

  No kidding. For the past year, I’d fantasized about future-me living a kick-ass life some place where high school football wasn’t a thing and Sour Patch Kids grew on trees. But the sad truth was present-me was stuck right here in Devil’s Lap, Texas. So, not future-me yet but—silver linings!—not past-me either.

  I would get a life, just as soon as I could kick the small town dirt from my Chuck Taylor’s. I hated the thought of leaving my dad alone, but it had been over a year since our lives imploded and he needed to get a life too.

  I pushed through the front doors and out into the bright morning sunlight. Since skipping wasn’t an option, it was off to school for me. All I had to do was make it through the rest of my senior year of high school.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled Milo, my fifteen-year-old Volvo with sun-faded teal paint, into my assigned space with time to spare before the first bell rang. I shut off Milo’s engine and closed my eyes and counted. One. Two. On cue Milo’s horn—a mooing
cow—sounded. The cow horn was on account of my nana’s quirky personality. The fact that it mooed every time I shut off the engine was on account of Bubba. That being Bubba of Bubba’s Horns and Hooters.

  It was a well-known fact that Bubba was like a T.V. with only one channel and even that channel had bad reception. But Nana and Bubba’s grandma had been good friends and she’d insisted Bubba was her horn guy. Did I cringe every time I turned off my car? Yes. But I also sent up a little prayer of thanks that Bubba wasn’t a brain surgeon.

  I chewed on my bottom lip as I sat watching the parking lot fill up. I wasn’t new here. I’d spent almost half of last year at Jackson. But a new quarter meant new classes and new classes meant new kids to deal with. Have you ever walked across a lawn in Texas? Where fire ant mounds sit like hidden landmines in the tall grass? You had to be on guard with every anxiety-building step. Cue the Jaws music. That was me entering a new classroom.

  I pulled out my phone, held it in front of me, and hit the video record.

  “This is it. One semester down; three to go. Anxiety level: about a four. Today’s objective: make it through the day. I’m so close to closing the book on this ugly chapter of my life. Stay focused. Ignore everything else. Positive affirmation: I rely on myself. I do not need other people for happiness.

  “It doesn’t matter what other kids think. I like myself and that’s enough.” I pointed at my image on the phone. “You’ve got this, Ali Frost.”

  Clicking to stop the recording, I uploaded it to my video diary. Yeah, I’d rolled my eyes when the therapist had recommended keeping a diary. Writing wasn’t my thing, plus it was weird. Why would I want to keep a daily chronicle of the worst year of my life? I’d promised my dad I’d go along with the therapy sessions, so I compromised and started a vlog. And maybe the therapist knew a thing or two because it was helping. It didn’t feel as awkward as talking to myself in my bathroom mirror.

  The muted warning bell sounded from inside the concrete jungle. Time to stop stalling. I made my way inside the way I always did which was part SWAT team and part hiding in plain sight: hug the edges, focus on what’s in front of me, and avoid eye contact. In one sense, it was easy to disappear. Kids were happy to let you. They’d look right through you, walk around you, sit in class with you for months and never notice you. Being invisible was my safe harbor until I could sail toward a new horizon.

  Going ghost wasn’t my natural tendency. I wasn’t an introvert. In fact, for most of my life I’d been a happy, outgoing, confident girl. Crazy how fast things can change. Which reminded me, I needed to stop by the counseling office during lunch today.

  I tossed my lunch into my locker and grabbed out a spiral, leafing through it to see if it had enough empty pages to reuse for the new quarter, but no. Too many pages filled with angsty doodles, so I slid it back in and grabbed another. This one was practically new.

  “Whoa, get a load of Clark today,” some guy said, his voice booming loudly from the lockers behind me.

  I flinched knowing what was coming. Like a pack of lions, they’d singled out the weakest in a herd and had begun the attack. My hypothalamus went into overdrive, shooting adrenaline through my veins. My heart rate spiked, my lungs sucked in oxygen, and my muscles tensed. All systems go; ready for fight or flight. Except, not really. Maybe my ancient ancestors were kick-ass ninja Neanderthals who’d chosen to fight, but not me. Not after the last year. My instinct was to flee. To escape, scamper, skedaddle, rabbit, bolt.

  The problem was Clark was Rowena Clark, one of the girls on my bowling team. A nice girl who’d never hurt anyone. We may not be friends, but I couldn’t desert her.

  “Clark, dress like a nerd day was yesterday. Although I guess every day is dress like a nerd day for you.”

  Jerk. Just because it was a lame insult didn’t mean it hurt any less. Not when kids shot insults like arrows at you all day long. I had to do something. But what?

  If I confronted the dude, I’d be in his sights. Thank you, but no. Although…maybe I didn’t need to confront him. I just needed him to leave. Right. I tore a page from my spiral, slid a pen from my backpack, and jotted out a short note.

  The jerk’s jerky sidekick thought his friend was hilarious and barked out a laugh.

  “Clark the aardvark. I didn’t think it was possible but your nose grew even more overnight.”

  Just like a bully: find a kid’s Achilles’ heel and poke at it with glee.

  I folded the note in half and turned toward the conversation. Rowena stood at her locker, her shoulders hunched forward protectively and her hand shaking as she dialed in her combination.

  “Hey.” Avoiding eye contact, I shoved the note at the guy who’d started it. “Some cheerleader told me to give this to you.”

  “Who?” He asked as he unfolded the paper and read.

  “I don’t know. Pretty. Long, dark brown hair…”

  “Was it Tiffany Peters?” The dude asked, still looking at the note only now with a huge I’m-hotter-than-Chris Hemsworth smirk. Ha!

  “Um, big blue eyes?” I took a wild guess.

  “No. Brown,” he said.

  “Oh, yes! Exactly. Big brown eyes—”

  “Big rack? Nice badonkadonk?”

  Literally had to bite my tongue. Guess “Big brain? Nice personality?” was a bridge too far for this gronk-nugget.

  “Dude,” his friend punched him in the shoulder. “I bet it’s Jodi Ball.”

  “Yaaassss. I knew she was checking me out at soccer practice.” His smirk got smirkier. “Jodi Ball wants me bad.”

  I deserved a medal for holding back an eye roll.

  “You should go,” I prodded, sending up a silent apology to Jody Ball. “Now. Before she gets bored waiting for you. There’s a wide selection at the Jocks-R-Us store.”

  “Yeah. Oh, yeah.” He turned and ran down the hall, his friend ghosting after him.

  Rowena released a loud breath. “Thanks, Ali.”

  “Hey, no one messes with a bowling teammate and gets away with it.” I closed my locker, giving the lock a random spin.

  “Actually, it h-happens all the time.” Rowena pushed her glasses up with the touch of her finger at the bridge. “I get too nervous to d-defend myself let alone anyone else, so I really appreciate it.”

  “Anytime.” Either way—whether you attempted to ignore the bullies or confronted them—it took nerves of steel. Ask me how I know?

  2

  Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner Booth

  Ali

  Counseling Office, “A” Lunch, 11:34 a.m.

  I was in the middle of taking advice from a pair of imaginary rabbits when a deep voice interrupted.

  “Hey.”

  I turned my attention from the “Hop into the Future with the Jackson Jackalopes” poster in the counseling office over to the open door where high school royalty, our star quarterback, stood. Dax DeLeon couldn’t be talking to me.

  “How’s it going?” he said with a nod.

  “You can see me?” Oh heck, I’d said that out loud. In this case, my surprise was understandable since usually no one in the “it” crowd noticed me. Which was exactly how I liked it.

  “Do you think you’re invisible?” His eyebrows rose into the sun-streaked shaggy brown hair falling across his forehead. “Is that why you’re here for counseling?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him and he shrugged and leaned against the wall. I was busy deciding if I wanted to bother responding to him when P3 stuck her head into the office.

  “Who are you talking to?” Perfect Popular Paige asked Dax. No question Paige was the most popular girl in school. She was pretty. She was a cheerleader. Duh. The fact that her father was the baseball coach gave her some extra clout. Like she needed it.

  He slid his glance from Paige over to me. So of course, Paige’s attention whipped my way.

  Gee thanks, quarterback dude. I didn’t want to be on anyone’s radar. Especially not hers. I’d arrived at Jackson in the middle of junior
year last year and done my best to keep to my own little orbit. Not that many kids were eager to open their cliques to let the new awkward girl in.

  Okay, that wasn’t fair. The girls on the bowling team had tried to be friends, but having been stabbed in the back by friends I thought I could count on… No. Call me crazy, but I’d have to be a masochist to volunteer for that again.

  “Come on, Dax.” Paige tossed her long blond hair. “We’re all going to Randy’s for lunch.”

  He held up a yellow appointment slip for her to see. “Can’t. My schedule’s messed up.”

  “Oh! I’ll wait with you so you’re not bored sitting here alone,” she said.

  Dax’s eyes flicked over to me.

  I arched an eyebrow at him.

  He frowned and his gaze took me in in all my quirky glory. From my two braids—the best way to control my wild curls—down to my baggy jeans and my aqua Chuck Taylor high tops.

  “I’m not alone,” he said, waving his hand in my direction. “I’m with…with…”

  Uh huh. I crossed my arms over my chest and waited because he’d proven my point. Invisible.

  “Frosty? You’re telling me you’re turning me down for her?”

  “Frosty?” he asked me.

  I stared at him without replying. First, because I hated the nickname I’d been assigned. It was low-hanging fruit as my last name was Frost. It hadn’t taken many brain cells for some kid to come up with that one. Second, Dax DeLeon was easy to stare at and probably used to it. The guy was gorgeous. If a girl liked bad-boy jocks too hot for mere mortal girls like me.